I straightened my spine. His question was on the razor’s edge of being sexist. “You mean, what’s a little girl like me doing in a wild place like this?”
The muscles in his jaw bunched. “Something like that.”
“At around five I received a call about a gator. The caller said he worked here”—I gestured to the brick building—“and reported a monster gator that had chased one of his employees.”
“No one works here,” he said in a flat tone. “This place has been empty for years.”
I lifted both hands. “Really? I don’t know. I’m only telling you what the caller said. I agreed to come down and take a look.”
“Did you get a name? A number?”
“Bob. Didn’t give a last name, said he was leaving to take his wife to dinner. And no, the number was private on my phone.”
Holt lifted an eyebrow. “You came out here when a guy named Bob, no last name, no number, called you?”
“Yeah. That’s what I do. I respond to gator calls. And iguanas and other problem reptiles.”
“Why didn’t your sister come with you?”
His tone made me bristle. I drew from a well of patience, the kind that I’d needed as an assistant zookeeper when people asked if they could climb into the crocodile exhibit and take a selfie.
“Because, like I said, this is my business. I came to check out the gator and would’ve called her if the situation warranted backup. Believe it or not, most gator calls don’t end in a trap. Many people call when they see a gator in the water. That’s where they’re supposed to be, so I end up doing nothing. A lot of my job is simply reassuring folks that wild animals are safe if they’re left alone.”
He nodded slowly. “Tell me what you saw when you arrived. Be as detailed as possible.”
I explained how I’d driven up and parked next to Gene’s truck.
“The engine was on, which was a bit strange. I thought he’d kept it running for some reason, and figured he was somewhere trying to trap the gator.”
“You didn’t call anyone when you saw the empty, yet running, truck?”
I frowned. “No. Why would I?”
More scribbles on the yellow legal pad. I was beginning to doubt my judgment. Should I have called the authorities?
“I spotted what looked like an alligator, so I drove closer with my flashlight. When I saw it was Gene, and that he was hurt, I got out of the truck to see if I could help. That’s when I saw the gunshot hole in the back of his head, and realized he was dead. I didn’t touch him because I was too shaken up after seeing all that blood.” I shivered.
“Your call to 911 specifically said that you knew it was Gene Robinson. How did you know that?”
“I recognized his face. And from the sign on the side of the truck.”
“Are you acquainted with the deceased?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” I muttered.
His eyes widened, and I followed up quickly with an explanation.
“You see, Detective Holt—”
“Alex. Call me Alex.”
I nodded once. “Alex. Got it. I’ve known Gator Gene for years.”
“Gator Gene? Is that his nickname?”
“Are you not from around here?”
“Came here from Tallahassee last month.”